


gray areas

by lipsticksunrise



Series: murder boyfriends [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Sexual Violence, Stabbing, consensual murder, impermanent death!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsticksunrise/pseuds/lipsticksunrise
Summary: “It’s … if I die now, will it be Just?”How many times can you kill your boyfriend before the universe decides you're evil? There's really only one way to find out.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: murder boyfriends [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626889
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	gray areas

**Author's Note:**

> could hypothetically be read as stand alone but mostly intended as a sequel to [by the grace of god](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474483), i swear i'm done writing about these two killing each other now lol
> 
> please be mindful of the tags + feel free to ask for detailed content warnings in the comments if you need :)

“So, that was… different,” Dirk says. The sound takes a beat to shape itself into language, then another to become meaning, and you turn so that you can face him. 

You’re both lying in bed, two parallel lines cutting through the heavy smell of sweat and motion, faces just far enough apart that you’d have to move to kiss him but you can smell his breath when he speaks, the scent of ozone that comes with resurrection, and he’s right. Something is… different, today. You just weren’t expecting either of you to bring it up, kind of hoping that he wouldn’t, in all honesty. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Was it, uh, alright?”

Alright. Kind of a funny word. 

(You had Dirk strung up by his wrists for nearly an hour. His toes - he was wearing these old white socks, and you started trying to cover their color completely at some point in the middle of it all - brushed the floor, sweeping across it like kids on swings whenever he tried to flinch away. Away, of course, being a preposition clearing the way for  _ you.  _ Your hands, the things you held in them, and Dirk had asked for it to hurt more than it ever had in the past and you can’t say no to him. You hadn’t wanted to say no.  _ Alright _ .)

Dirk is quiet for a moment. He’s facing you but not looking at you, and not for the first time today, you’re starting to get worried that you may have gone too far. 

(You’ve killed him countless times by now, but today was the first time that he cried outside of an involuntary biological response. It started when the knife slid low into his gut and you called him perfect, and it didn’t stop until his heart did.)

(He sobbed, an awful sound you’d never even imagined you could pull from him, when you cut off his thumb. You came in your pants.) 

“Dirk?”

He meets your eyes, and his mouth is still but his gaze is warm. “It was good,” he says. “Did you… are you alright?” 

A funny, funny word. A real gut buster. 

(How many people have seen their boyfriend’s intestines, just a glimpse when the skin was peeled back? You know you’re all more than a bit on the fucked side, but you know you have to be the worst.)

“Right as rain, my dear,” you tell him, then a pause, then, “I’m sorry.” 

Dirk’s brow furrows, and his hand reaches up to rest on your shoulder, comforting, and you don’t know why today feels so  _ weird. _

(You know. Or at least, you suspect, because you and Dirk have a routine of sorts at this point, and it didn’t go along with the core tenets of your little system - Jane would be so disappointed - to miss the exact moment when Dirk stopped being  _ Dirk _ because you were a little too preoccupied with the idea of taking him apart, piece by piece, and keeping each little bit of him safe.

You know he was probably searching for your eyes right at the end, because you know you always promise to see him again soon, and you know that you were too distracted by the fact that the sound of him crying made you come in your pants to notice. Dirk, of course, usually has the monopoly on self-criticism, but you’re not as oblivious as you seem.) 

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Dirk asks. “This is - I  _ asked _ for this, Jake, and I really, really liked it.”

“Okay, but…” You roll from your side onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. “Dirk, I’ve never heard you cry like that.”

He makes a small, likely unintentional noise in the back of his throat. “Well-“

“And Christ on a cracker, Dirk, I missed the moment when you actually  _ died _ !” Your arm is waving now, agitated, and you don’t know if it’s going to be better or worse to explain why. Christ on a fucking cracker. 

His hand reaches up and catches yours, pulling it over to himself and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Yeah, alright, I’ll admit I didn’t love that, but dude, you were in the fuckin’ zone, it doesn’t have to happen again, it’s all good. Um. As long as you liked it, like, if you were just zoning out because you didn’t want to do that shit, then I think that’s the conversation we need to be having right now.”

Leave it to Dirk to get right to the heart (his heart, you cut a thin line right across where you could hear it beating, you wondered if you could cut it out) of the matter. “I… no, that’s not it.” 

You don’t have to see his face to know that he’s raising an eyebrow. “Then what’s going on?”   
  
“It’s … if I die now, will it be Just?” 

The room, which was quiet before, seems to go completely silent. Well. You didn’t even realize that was the question you wanted to ask until it left your mouth, and now that it’s out there… well, it’s out there, and less than two hours ago, you tortured your boyfriend until he died and got off on it. Dirk is silent. You toss a couple of words around in your head before continuing, softer now, still not able to tear your gaze away from the ceiling, “I had a rip roaring time doing all of that to you, starshine, and I don’t think that’s quite how it’s supposed to work.” 

“That doesn’t mean that you’re evil, though,” Dirk says, and it sounds like he’s trying for convincing but he’s still a bit too obviously lost in thought for it to work. You let him work through his thoughts, waiting on bated breath, and then he says, slowly and with the air of something practiced, “I mean, there’s one way to find out for sure.”

It’s your turn for silence now, or at least, it would be, if your mouth wasn’t suddenly running in accelerated time along with your heartbeat. “Uh. You mean - I suppose that’s - that’s certainly an option of a thing we could do now!”

Dirk makes a soft noise.

(It sounds just like the sound he made when you cut his shirt off and scratched into his back, just like the sound he made when you traced the knife across his throat, just like the sound he made when he heard his thumb hit the floor.)

“Is that something you’d… be interested in?” he asks. It’s careful, slow, and he’s definitely imagined having at least this part of this conversation before, the beautiful bastard. 

You turn that over in your head for a moment. Is it? If it ends up being Just, you would hate to leave Dirk, but… if it ends up being Just, will Dirk really be any worse off? He deserves the world, and you feel like you’re stepping off the edge of a precipice when you say, faux-casual in a way you’ve never been able to pull off quite like he can, “How would you do it?”

Dirk props himself up on his elbow so that he can look down at you. He looks surprised that you asked. “Uh, well, what would you want?”

A beat. What would you want? What  _ do  _ you want? If it’s Just, if you deserve this, what do you want? Do you want this at all? Is there any way for you to keep existing without knowing whether or not you  _ should _ ?

“I… “ you start, and your first thought is just a decaptchalogue away, but the past is closer and you’d never heard Dirk sound like that before and, “I mean, everything’s all set up downstairs.”

“That’s true,” Dirk says. His voice is carefully neutral. “Would you  _ want _ that, though? It’s not like we really have to figure this shit out ever, you know.”

That’s true, technically, but it’s not, really, because now the question is out there and it’s going to sit like a wild animal in the corner of the room until it’s answered. You close your eyes for a moment and wonder what it would be like to die. You’ve done it before, of course, but never like  _ this.  _ “Well, cripes, Dirk, you seem to like it enough, maybe this is just a sign that it’s my turn on the old horse,” you offer. “If it’s all fine and squared dandy with you.”

A thin crease appears between Dirk’s eyebrows, right in the space that his shades would usually obscure. “I could put Jane on speed dial for healing, in case you changed your mind,” he says.

And - you didn’t think this was something you’d be into, not on this side of the equation, anyway, but the idea of Dirk having the kind of power over you that could lend itself to a need for healing - you shiver, just a bit. “I don’t know about all that, I would hate to bother her, and this all could be a right sight to try and explain. And I trust you, sugarplum.”

The crease between Dirk’s eyebrows grows just a bit deeper, then disappears from your line of sight as he drops back down onto his back next to you. “So you want this.”   
  
“Quite, I think,” you say. The answer comes faster than you were expecting it to; you just can’t stop remembering how Dirk looked like that, the sounds he made, and moral quandaries aside… you love being in control, but the idea of handing over the reins, so to speak, has something stirring in your lower stomach. 

“You want me to hurt you until you die, even though you might not come back,” Dirk repeats.

“Don’t make it sound like that, you basically do the same thing,” you chide lightly, reaching an arm over to swat at his shoulder. “I want you to help me solve a little moral dilemma called ‘is it all neat and prescription that I get off on killing my boyfriend,’ and we find a hot way to check that box, well, I think that’s exactly what ol’ Mr. Socatres would’ve wanted.”

“Socrates,” Dirk corrects, but there’s no annoyance in his tone. “And yeah, yeah, alright.”   


Alright. A funny, funny word to sit where it is, in the idea of space between you and Dirk as he begins to tell you exactly how he wants to kill you. 

*

It’s not even an hour later before you find yourself right where Dirk was earlier: strung up by your wrists, your toes - bare and speckled with some of the blood you’ve coughed up - flat on the floor and holding you steady as you sway forward and back, forward and back, in perfect time with Dirk. 

It’s all happening a tad faster than you had thought it would, but really, if paradox space has deemed this inevitable, there’s no getting around it whether you do it now or later, so here you are. Here you are. There’s a bright stinging pain where Dirk stabbed you just between your heart and lung, and all that you can focus on through its rhythmic ache is the feeling of the tip of Dirk’s knife idly running up and down your thigh. 

“You okay?” Dirk asks. His voice is low, careful, unmistakably turned on, and you close your eyes.

You can feel blood dripping down your chest and onto the floor. Your shoulders ache from being pulled upwards for so long. You have a multitude of shallow wounds along your sides and arms, and after just another few minutes of blood loss, it’s going to be a little too late to reconsider this little moral experiment. Dirk’s knife pauses in its path from your outer to inner thigh. 

“Never better,” you tell him, offering up a smile accented in perfect time with a small cough that brings blood to your lips and a sharp jolt to your chest. It’s more true than you ever would have thought it could be. Dirk is beautiful like this, shades discarded and eyes dark, all of his angles and nerves and muscles weaving themselves into something more dangerous than you’ve ever seen, even in the game. He’s dangerous and he’s beautiful and you’re bleeding out, but you’ve never felt safer than you do, here, now, caught between his gaze and the point of his knife.

The left side of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “I can’t believe we didn’t do this sooner,” he says, leaning in and kissing you. His lips are flecked with your blood when he pulls away. “You look fuckin’ amazing, all torn up for me.”

You can’t help but preen a bit at that, and you would blush if your blood wasn’t being pulled in a thousand different directions already. “You’re beautiful tearing me up,” you say, and oh,  _ Christ,  _ inhaling is starting to hurt now, a violent ache like a riptide or a noose snapping taut, and your breath catches somewhere between a sob and a groan. For a moment, the edges of your vision blur into gray. 

“Whoa, whoa, stay with me,” Dirk says. His free hand reaches up to cup your cheek and keep your head upright, and you lean into the contact. “Are you… can I go further?”   


Another jolt of pain has you gritting your teeth and tensing up, your hips swaying forward and back, forward and back, before you can manage to say, “ _ Please.”  _

Dirk doesn’t say anything else before the knife slides between your legs, and then he does this neat little flick of his wrist that has the tip of the knife against one thigh and the handle against the other, forcing your legs apart just enough for Dirk’s hand to let go of your face in favor of sliding down to grope at your dick through your boxers. You’re half hard, everything is on sensory overload, you would probably have came already if it wasn’t for the fact that your body is a little preoccupied with keeping you conscious.

“Fuck,” Dirk mutters, the sound clearly less intentional than most of the ones he makes. “Uh. Next time, I’m gonna-”

And you honestly don’t know if it’s the promise of a next time - and every single philosophical implication that has - or the bright ache of Dirk’s knife sinking deep into your thigh that has your voice cracking on something like a scream, that has your back arching in a way that stretches and twists the wound in your chest, but  _ fuck. _ Fuck. You’re not sure if it’s physically possible for the human body to orgasm when it’s not hard, but it almost seems like you could find out any second before. God. You have the best boyfriend in the universe. 

The wound in your thigh is warm-rapidly-turning-hot, a slow trickle of blood that starts to pick up speed when Dirk’s hand tightens on your dick and your legs try to snap closed with the intensity of the feeling, which only succeeds in pushing the knife further into you. Dirk makes a sound like a whimper in the back of his throat and yanks the knife out. The blood starts to run in earnest. 

Your entire left side is covered at this point, just sticky, clotting red and one continuous, omnipresent  _ hurt.  _ Blood and bile force their way up your throat, and your vision flickers in and out, just for a second. “Dirk-” you gasp out, the sound thick and choked with the fluids falling from your lips, “Dirk-”

“Shh, I know,” he murmurs, and his hand returns to your face with a caress so gentle the situation feels momentarily unreal. “You’re doin’ so good, Jake, just hold on a minute longer for me.”   
  
Words don’t feel like they’re going to work, so you hope that your attempt at a nod conveys your message. There’s a dull bit of fear settling in behind the pain now, a reminder that this isn’t going to last forever, that you’re pretty far past the normal point of no return, but the fog spreading from your vision to your brain is making it kind of difficult to contemplate the moral complications of your and Dirk’s relationship. 

Another sharp, sharp throb of pain, this time tucked under your collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realize that Dirk’s stabbed you again. Oh, fuck. Your head falls towards your chest, your chin colliding with the fresh spot of blood just as Dirk pulls the knife away. Your wrists sag against their restraints as your knees threaten to buckle. The world is foggy gray hurt and sharp, aching love for Dirk. He’s doing this. He’s taking everything you’re offering and he’s seeing you at your worst and oh god, he’s pressing a kiss to your forehead and he’s whispering something but you can’t quite make it out. 

“Wh-” you try. The attempt at a syllable brings a fresh mouthful of blood along with it. Dirk lifts the knife and rests it, blade touching you, against your throat. 

“You still want this?” Dirk asks. There’s a tremor in his voice that wasn’t there before, but if you and he are on the same page, there’s more than a fair amount of arousal along with the existential fear hidden in the wavers. “I… you know I wouldn’t do this if I thought….”

A pause. The silence doesn’t get a beat before it’s broken by the sound of your blood hitting the floor. You are foggy gray hurt and sharp aching love for Dirk and you are not a person but pinpricks of electricity in every place Dirk’s knife and hands have touched and the English language is slipping from you, but, “But you’re still scared.” 

And that’s a concept you’ll need to think on later, because you love Dirk but it still trips you up to consider that he thinks of you as something to be scared of losing, to know that you truly are the luckiest being to ever exist, whether or not that becomes past tense in a moment. 

Dirk quirks the side of his mouth up again. “Weren’t you?”

There are a couple responses on the tip of your tongue, but they’re slick with blood and dissolve into useless gasps and cries before they’re given any hint of a realness of comprehensibility attribute.  _ Jiminy cricket, Dirk, if this is Just, you’re not getting rid of anything worth keeping. Jiminy cricket, Dirk, did you know you’re the most perfect being I’ve ever imagined? Jiminy cricket, Dirk, I see where you’re coming from; we’re going to have to do this again one day. Jiminy cricket, Dirk, just do it already, please. Do it now. _

And maybe that last part comes out out loud, you really have no idea at this point. Your senses are gone, your breath is shallow, you are pinpricks of electricity, little stars, and you are going supernova, and the pressure on Dirk’s knife relative to your jugular vein increases, increases, increases - 

When your eyes open, you’re back in bed, tucked in Dirk’s arms and feeling like you could conquer the world. Your eyes open _.  _ You’re back. You’re  _ back. _

“I’m back?” you say, and it’s obvious, yeah, but you can’t help but be incredulous. 

Dirk smiles, a real one this time, small but genuine all the way through, and your heart skips, skips, skips. “You’re back,” he says, less incredulous and more awe. “You’ve, uh - there’s a scar. On your throat. But, um, aside from that, I guess paradox space has just accepted that we’re kinda fucked up.”

A scar? You reach a hand up and trace your fingers over the front of your throat, and you’re less surprised than you probably should be when your fingers bump against uneven tissue, exactly where your veins split open. Huh. You brush your fingers over it again once, twice more before letting your hand fall down into Dirk’s. You lean your head onto Dirk’s shoulder and let your smile brush against his neck. “I guess so.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feedback is always welcome :)


End file.
